Latest / The History of Ireland: Rebellion, Empire, and Independence — Fexingo History / Béal na mBláth: The Last Ride of Michael Collins
Transcript
- Lucas: So we've circled around a few times — the Easter Rising, the Treaty, the Civil War — but there's one moment that still casts a long shadow over all of it. Michael Collins's death at Béal na mBláth, August 1922. Luna: The one ambush that everyone's heard of, I think. Lucas: Exactly. And yet for all the famous stories — the convoy, the ambush, the mystery shooter — the actual details are murkier than most people realise. Let's start with the basics. Collins was commander-in-chief of the National Army, fighting his former comrades in the anti-Treaty IRA. He was in Cork on a morale-boosting tour, trying to shore up support for the provisional government. Lucas: The Civil War was barely three months old, and it was brutal. Collins had already approved executions of anti-Treaty prisoners. He'd even offered a truce to Éamon de Valera a few days earlier — a letter, actually, that de Valera never answered. So Collins was in a tense, volatile place. Luna: Wait, he was trying to make peace at the same time as fighting? Lucas: That's the thing — Collins was famously pragmatic. He knew the Civil War was tearing Ireland apart, and he was looking for a way out. But on that particular trip, he was also showing the flag. The convoy left Cork on the morning of the 22nd, heading for Macroom, then on to the small village of Béal na mBláth. It was a risky route — right through anti-Treaty territory. Lucas: Now, here's where the story gets properly tangled. The anti-Treaty IRA had actually planned an ambush for that day, hoping to catch a Free State patrol. But they thought Collins was already back in Dublin — or so the later accounts go. So when they saw his convoy — a big armoured car and a few open tourers — they had to decide fast. Luna: So the ambush was almost accidental? Lucas: It looks that way. The IRA column, maybe thirty or forty men, set up positions along the road near Béal na mBláth. They had a Lewis gun, rifles, some grenades. Collins's convoy drove right into it. There was an exchange of fire — the Free State cars pressed through, but one broke down. Collins and his men turned back to help, and that's when the shooting really started. Lucas: And then — we still don't know for sure who fired the fatal shot. Some say Collins was hit by a ricochet from his own side, a Free State soldier firing from the armoured car. Others insist it was an IRA marksman, maybe a man named Sonny O'Neill. The exact circumstances were never properly investigated — and the body was taken away quickly, the scene wasn't preserved. Luna: So even the identity of the shooter is disputed? Lucas: Completely. And it matters because it feeds into the tragedy of the Civil War — brother against brother. Collins was killed by an Irishman, not a British soldier. That's a fact. But whether it was a deliberate shot or a tragic accident is still argued about. Even the precise position of the convoy — who was where, when — is contested. Luna: That's kind of haunting. Lucas: It is. And it's a reminder that history isn't always clean. We know Collins's body was brought back to Dublin, and the funeral was massive — tens of thousands lined the streets. But the man who might have ended the war sooner, who was trying to negotiate a peace, was gone. The Civil War dragged on for another eight months, and it got even more bitter. Lucas: You know, thinking about that — how the loss of one man could change the course of things — it's a bit like how we think about this show. We try to keep these stories alive, and that takes time and care. If you've been enjoying these conversations and want to help us keep them going, we'd be grateful if you considered supporting us at buy me a coffee dot com slash fexingo. It's a small way to keep the history flowing. Luna: Yeah, it really helps us keep doing this. Lucas: So back to that day. After Collins died, the story didn't end. The site at Béal na mBláth became a place of pilgrimage for anti-Treatyites and Free Staters alike, each with their own memory. In 1935, a stone monument was erected, and every August, people still gather there for a wreath-laying ceremony. The Irish Defence Forces even hold a formal commemoration now. Lucas: But there's a darker side to the memory, too. For decades, the exact circumstances of the ambush were kept vague, almost deliberately. The families of the IRA men involved didn't talk much. The Free State side didn't want to admit it might have been a friendly fire incident. So the fog of war extended into the histories of the event. Luna: And that fog, I guess, is part of the story. Lucas: Absolutely. We can trace the convoy's route — from Cork to Macroom, then towards Bandon. We know the breakdown, the return, the firefight. But the exact sequence of bullets, the placement of Collins's body — those are still debated. Even the famous photo of his cap, with the bullet hole, has been questioned. Lucas: One thing that's certain: Collins's death was a turning point. It hardened the government's stance, and within weeks they were executing prisoners — including Erskine Childers, who'd been captured with a small pistol, which was the excuse. The Civil War became a war of revenge as much as anything else. Luna: So it wasn't just one death — it changed the whole course of the war. Lucas: It did. If Collins had lived, who knows? He might have brokered a compromise with de Valera. Instead, the war ground on, and the divisions hardened into the political landscape of modern Ireland — the two main parties, Fianna Fáil and Fine Gael, both trace their roots to the Treaty split. So that crossroads in Cork, in a way, echoes all the way to today's Dáil. Lucas: And there's another twist. The ambush happened because the IRA was waiting for a different target — a Free State patrol that regularly used that stretch of road. Collins just happened to come along. So it was a combination of chance and bad timing. Or, depending on your point of view, fate. Luna: That's almost too poetic. Lucas: Yes, and the poetry doesn't stop there. Collins was famously called 'the Big Fellow' — a giant of the independence movement. His death, at 31, turned him into a martyr. Even Éamon de Valera, his old rival, later said he believed Collins would have been the best man to lead Ireland if he'd lived. That's a remarkable admission. Lucas: So when you stand at Béal na mBláth today — and you can still see the monument, the field, the bend in the road — you're standing at a place where the future of a nation literally hung in the balance. And the only thing we can say with certainty is that it was an Irishman who fired the shot, and an Irishman who died. Luna: And that's the tragedy, isn't it. Lucas: It is. The Civil War was a family quarrel, and Collins's death is its symbol. But the story doesn't end with bitterness. In 2022, on the centenary, there were commemorations that included both sides — former soldiers, politicians, historians. The angle has shifted from blame to remembrance. So maybe, a hundred years on, the fog is finally starting to lift.